


All The Jagged Pieces of You

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mages and Templars, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: In Tevinter, all mage children are thrown a party when they come into their magic.Trevelyan missed out on that in the South. Dorian wants to remedy that.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	All The Jagged Pieces of You

After two weeks of nocturnal bliss, no one was more surprised than Dorian to find that he hadn’t grown tired of Trevelyan. Even more surprising was that Trevelyan had not grown tired of him.

No, despite himself, Dorian's heart apparently had a string tied around it with the other end wrapped around Trevelyan’s finger. He wasn’t content to simply be in Trevelyan’s bed—he wanted to be with him all the time. It didn’t matter if it was for a minute or an evening or a week in the Hinterlands, he craved his company. When Trevelyan wasn’t there, Dorian thought of him constantly, and when he was, it was like the sun had returned. Dorian would never have admitted it out loud, but he was starting to look forward to the evenings where they didn’t have sex almost as much as the evenings when they did.

They sat one night on the couch in front of the fire in the Inquisitor’s quarters, an empty bottle of wine on the cushion between them. A card game lay abandoned on the rug, as well as a perfumed letter from an Orlesian duchess who, hilariously, had proposed marriage to the Inquisitor. The night was growing long, and Dorian felt himself edging toward sleep. The conversation turned, as it so often did, toward magic.

“Wait, your parents threw you a party when you came into your magic?” asked Trevelyan.

“Of course,” said Dorian. “My parents were ridiculously relieved. If your son or daughter doesn’t get their magic by the time they’re seven, you might as well give up hope. Even if they do come into it later, they’ll already be years behind everyone else.”

“That seems unreasonable,” said Trevelyan. “Some children don’t get their magic until they’re twelve, older even.”

“Yes, and every year they don’t get their magic, their parents pop out another child in the hopes of one day getting an heir who can actually cast a spell. Alas, my parents put all their hope on me.”

“But you came through,” said Trevelyan. “At age seven.”

“Six and a half, actually,” said Dorian. He was still smug about that.

“And the party—was it just your family?“

“Ha! Hardly. The peasants in Qarinas still talk about it sometimes. My father hosted a tourney in my honor. A joust, an arcane pit, a melee. Can you believe it? Big, oiled Vashoth in loincloths beating each other silly with spiked maces. Ten-thousand swans were roasted for all our servants and vineyard keepers. There was a horse race, and the winner gifted me his stallion. My cousins came all the way from Vyrantium to give me turquoise and silver jewelry. Marriage proposals arrived in gilt boxes filled with myrrh and saffron, and harpists and singers and mummers played until dawn. There was a spell contest, and someone rigged our fountain to pipe out perfume and rose water. At the end of it, my father gave me his grandfather’s black walnut staff, and pinned the insignia of our house on my new black cloak. He was proud.” Dorian’s throat went tight. It had been a long time since he’d thought of that day. “We could have probably spent more money, but there’s a measure to these things. Go too far, and you risk seeming gauche. Too little, and your neighbors will never let you forget it.”

“All that because you got your magic?”

“Of course,” said Dorian. “What better way to prove the might of the magisters than by showing everyone how much money we have?”

“What about slaves? Merchants? Surely their children don’t have that kind of celebration when they come into their magic.”

“Oh, they do, just not as extravagantly. A slave whose son or daughter gets their magic is given a party by their family. If the master decides they want to train the child, then they might throw some money in the pot themselves. Magic is celebrated in Tevinter. Not always for the best reasons, but we love it there. It cleans our water, keeps us healthy, puts the winds in our sails. It innovates and pushes us to dream. It’s the core of our culture, our religion, our history, the very embodiment of nature itself." Dorian reached over and grabbed the bottle. “We don’t treat it with fear and loathing the way you people do.”

Trevelyan turned back to the fire. He was a severe man, with heavy brows and a shaved face and head. When he brooded, it showed.

Dorian knew he shouldn’t ask, because he already had an inkling of the answer, but he was curious. “Given everything I’ve heard about the south, I’m guessing you own magic wasn’t a cause for celebration?”

“No,” said Trevelyan. “It wasn’t.”

Dorian tipped back the wine bottle. He stuck his tongue inside, searching for the last drops. Finding none, he set it down. “Such a waste. If you had been born in Tevinter, you would have been treated like a prince. Your parents would have seen your magic for the gift it is instead of a curse.”

Trevelyan huffed.

“What?”

“It’s funny,” said Trevelyan. “I’ve lived outside the Circle for most of my life. I rebelled against the Chantry, killed Templars, but just hearing you say those words makes me nervous.”

Dorian was perplexed. “That your magic isn’t a curse?”

“Yes,” said Trevelyan. “When I came into my magic, it was the worst thing that ever happened to me. Sometimes it still feels that way. I don’t always agree with what you say about Tevinter, but giving someone a party for their magic—it sounds nice.”

Trevelyan stood and stretched. “You coming to bed?”

That night, Dorian lay awake beside Trevelyan. He had always found the way southerners treated magic to be laughable. More often now, he found himself imagining Trevelyan as a little boy in the hands of Templars, and it was a great deal less funny. He couldn’t relate to the idea of magic being something to fear or hate. The day he got his magic had been one of the happiest days of his life. The idea of being afraid of himself, of being ashamed of his own magic, was too terrible to contemplate.

That was when Dorian had an idea. 

* * *

“You want to throw Trevelyan a party for what?” said Sera.

“A party to celebrate magic,” said Dorian. “His magic, specifically.”

Dorian had spent all morning planning it out in his head. The more he planned, the more excited he became.

“It should be small, otherwise every sycophant in the castle will want an invitation,” said Dorian. “The Inner Circle only for this one. There will dinner, dancing, maybe even an arcane display or two.”

Sera was staring at him as if he’d grown two heads. “You want to throw Trevelyan a party because he’s got magic?”

“Yes,” said Dorian.

“But why?”

“Because no one ever told him that his magic is good thing. In Tevinter, when a child comes of age, we throw them a feast to show them how much their gifts are valued.”

Sera raised her bow and aimed it at the straw dummy at the edge of the range. “Oh, well, in that case, we should absolutely do it.”

The arrow thwacked in the dummy's groin.

“All his life he’s been told he’s either a burden or a curse,” said Dorian. “He deserves to feel good about being a mage.”

“Why?” said Sera.

Dorian was getting frustrated. “You’re his friend, yes?”

“Yeah.” Sera drew another arrow.

“You care about him?”

“Well, yeah,” said Sera.

“Then you want him to be happy, yes?”

“Why should he be happy about having magic? It’s like being happy about having a rheumy eye or a gouty knee. It’s not good.”

“His magic is part of him.”

“Yeah, the worst part.”

The second arrow thwacked in the dummy. Dorian took a long breath.

“The day he got his magic was terrible for him. It didn't have to be like that. I simply want to throw him a late ‘welcome to the arcane arts!’ party to show him how much we appreciate his talents.”

“Oh, yeah, we appreciate how much he lobs fireballs and does demony shite. If there’s food, I’ll come. Just don’t expect me to stick around if he starts pissing thunderbolts.”

Dorian felt a rush of irritation. “If that’s the case, then you’re not invited.”

“Fine." Sera stuck her tongue out at him. 

“Fine!” Dorian turned and marched off the practice field. The _thwack_ of the dummy getting its dummy balls shot a third time followed him back to the castle. 

* * *

“You wish to throw a party for the Inquisitor?” asked Josephine. Her quill never stopped moving.

“Yes," said Dorian. "Would that be possible?”

“I believe so, yes. I could invite the Duchess du Verny. She’s been dying to speak with him. Also, the Baron of Belissima. I would need to prepare a summer menu, something with lots of greens.”

“Actually, I was thinking something more private.”

“Oh. I suppose that would be possible.” Josephine frowned. “What is this for again? Please tell me I did not forgot his name day.”

“I sincerely doubt you’d be able to.” Dorian paused, considering how best to explain. “It’s a party to celebrate his magic.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“In Tevinter, we throw parties for children when they come into their magic. Obviously, southerners’ have different customs. Trevelyan…” Dorian was struggling. “He deserves this. I want him to know that his magic isn’t a curse. Does that makes sense to you?”

“It…does seem important to you,” said Josephine.

“It would be an exclusive function," he said. "Very small.”

“It would have to be." Josephine sighed. “Are you certain you need this?”

“Of course. You are his friend, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and I am also his advisor. We must always consider our public face. There are mages in the rebellion who would consider what you are suggesting to be far too bold.”

“You’ll forgive me for saying so, but the Inquisition isn’t known for being anything but bold.”

“But always we walk a knife’s edge. We have a mage Inquisitor who is allied with both the Mage Rebellion and the Mage Collective. We have done much to advance the cause of mages, but even so, we can only push so hard. Trevelyan knows this. He is a proud man, but he even he knows not to flaunt himself.”

“It’s a bloody party,” said Dorian, his rage flaring up again. “Are you really such a coward that you can’t even give him that?”

“I simply wish to be circumspect."

“Then forget I asked.”

“No, Dorian, wait—”

But Dorian was already walking out. His jaw ached from clenching.

* * *

Dorian wandered the castle walls, letting the howling winds cool his temper. He was starting to feel a great deal less certain about the whole endeavor. In Tevinter, a party to celebrate magic would have been taken up instantly. Saint days to beatify mage saints were a dozen a month on the Chantry calendar, with hundreds of feast days a year to celebrate magic in all its forms. Mage children were laureled as heroes by their hometowns, magical displays were done in town squares, and festivals for magical achievements in agriculture, medicine, and navigation were done for no reason other than to drink.

That Trevelyan’s friends couldn’t even throw him one party was galling. Why couldn’t they do this one small thing for him?

Dorian leaned on the wall and gazed down at the icy ravine below. There were still other people to ask, but he could guess how they would answer. Solas would think it frivolous. Vivienne would not give it the time of day. Varric wouldn’t understand, and Cassandra would sneer at it. They wouldn’t see it as a reason to celebrate Trevelyan, but his magic instead, as if the two weren’t one in the same.

He suddenly wondered if this was why Trevelyan was always so guarded and closed-off. He was kind with his friends, doting even, but there was a fundamental lack of trust there that Dorian had never understood.

They don’t love you, Dorian realized. They just love pieces of you. The thought made him sadder than he could say.

_“Irons cold like waves, the ocean cold like iron, the tower cold inside and out…..”_

Dorian startled. Cole was walking along the wall, heedless of the crevasse on the other side.

“Maker’s breath, will you get down?” said Dorian. “You’re giving me palpitations.”

Cole stared at his hands as if expecting to find something there.

Dorian grabbed his shirt and tugged until the young man stepped down. Cole stood there wringing his hands, as pale and moist looking as ever.

“Have you considered what would happen if you took a tumble off the castle wall?” asked Dorian. “I would be blamed for it, and the Inquisitor would never let me hear the end of it.”

“He would be sad,” said Cole. “He cares. You care, too, Dorian.”

“I’ll thank you not to spread vile slander about me.” Dorian dusted off Cole’s shoulders and smoothed the wrinkles from his tunic. “What are you lurking up here for? Eavesdropping on people’s private thoughts again?”

“I can’t hear as well as I used to,” said Cole. “I hear other things, feel other things, but hurts are softer.”

Dorian didn’t know what to say to that. He had heard the Inquisitor had taken Cole to Redcliffe for some business, one that he had refused to speak about since then, citing Cole’s privacy. Dorian coudn't imagine what a spirit would need to be private about, but then again, it was not his area of expertise.

 _“Stomach full of bees, head like brambles, crying, wishing, begging. Don’t let them take me,”_ said Cole. _“I’ll be good. Don’t let them take me. Don’t let them take me away.”_

“Who are you listening to?” asked Dorian. 

“Jack,” said Cole.

Dorian felt a chill. “Then you should stop.”

“I can’t help it,” said Cole. “You told him about your magic, and it made him think about when he got his. It’s all he can think about.“

The spirit’s watery eyes mooned up at Dorian from under the brim of his hat.

_“Mother and father won’t look at me. The Templars won’t speak to me. What will happen to my dog?”_

“Please stop.”

“ _Can’t breathe inside the tower. Cold table, cold knife, cold inside me. Thrashing, screaming, pleading. No one told me it would be like this. I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home.”_

“Enough,” snapped Dorian. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“He was bad, and the Templars punished him,” said Cole. “They cut him open like a rat. _We want to know what makes you wicked. We want to know what makes you sick.”_

Dorian wanted to hit him. Trevelyan had never told him about what happened at Ostwick Circle, but he had heard enough rumors from the rebel mages to know that unspeakable things had happened in that lonely, isolated tower. The mages who had survived Ostwick had strange scars on their bodies. Trevelyan’s scar was on his head, long and surgical and disturbingly soft to the touch.

“They kept Jack in the dark,” said Cole, “like they kept Cole in the dark. It’s why he wanted to help me.”

Dorian wrapped his arms around himself. “What is wrong with this part of the world?”

Cole didn’t answer. The spirit hunched beside him in a way that was strangely solid and human.

"I need to show him that every part of him is wonderful," said Dorian. "Not just the parts people tolerate." 

"Then why don't you?" asked Cole.

"Because it won't matter if I do it alone. It has to be everyone. He has to _see_."

Dorian felt his rage spike again. Was it truly hopeless for Trevelyan to get the thanks he deserved for being alive? What good was Dorian's charm if it couldn't even persuade his friends to do the bare minimum? 

And then it hit him. 

"Cole," he said. "How you like to be wicked for a day?"

Cole tilted his head. 

"Nothing blood-soaked, I promise. It's for Trevelyan." 

"Then yes," said Cole. "I would." 

* * *

Dorian had gone about it all wrong with the Inner Circle. He had tried to excite Sera about the prospect of a party and it hadn't worked. He had tried to appeal to Josephine's organizational zeal, and that too had fallen flat. 

He had wanted them to help Trevelyan feel less ashamed of himself. 

It only seemed fair that he shame them into cooperating.

"Cassandra." 

The Seeker turned from the training dummy she was beating into submission. Her sneer turned into wide-eyed shock at the book Dorian held in his hand. 

"The Apostate and the Seeker of Truth." Dorian thumbed through the curled pages. They were singed and water-stained, no doubt from the many battles the poor novel had been subjected to all across Thedas. "My, this is incriminating." 

"How-" Cassandra threw her sword in the grass and made a lunge for it. Dorian easily sidestepped her. '"Give it to me!" 

"Just think, I could do readings at dinner each night. Where should I start? Chapter 7: 'The apostate's turgid wizardhood hardened in Seeker Constance's calloused hand-'"

Cassandra's face bore remarkable resemblance to an overripe tomato. "How did you find that?"

She jumped when Cole appeared next to her.

" _Secret flame, warm inside, warm below,"_ said Cole. _"Hand seeking perfect pleasure between moist pages-_ mfff." Cassandra slapped a hand over his mouth. 

"Enough," she said. "What do you want?" 

"Nothing too painful. We're holding a small party for Trevelyan in the rear garden this evening. You are cordially invited."

"A party? What for?" asked Cassandra.

"A belated communion for his arcane gifts. We have them all the time in Tevinter. Surely you've heard?"

Cassandra's face darkened. He anticipated every argument she could possibly articulate, and in response held up the book. All her pretty complaints withered like scrap paper in a flame. He gave a curt wave with the dog-eared novel and turned on his heel. "Be sure to attend, or else Varric and I will be having some very interesting conversations."

* * *

"Come to watch the show, Vint?"

Bull gave him a lacivious grin. He was helping one of the merchants unload barrels of ale in the lower yard, ostensisbly so he could claim his first pick of the drafts, and more subtly so he could pick up gossip. He set a massive barrel down in the muck and stood, flexing his pecs so that his dark nipples did a little dance. Dorian had to admire them. He couldn't help it: they were right at eye-level.

"If I wanted to watch, I would have picked a spot with less horse dung." Dorian flicked his fingers, and a tiny current of air circled his head to ward off the flies. "I came here to relay a message."

"Oh yeah?" Bull leaned on the barrel. His trousers were hung low on his hips, and he adjusted himself.

"You'll be attending a party this afternoon. One specifically to celebrate magic."

Bull was a difficult man to surprise, but for a full second, Dorian knew he had taken him off guard. Bull gave a single loud "HA!" that echoed around the yard. "Really. And what makes you think I don't have anything better to do?"

"I'm sure you do. But whichever tavern girl you promised to tumble will have to wait. This party is for Trevelyan, and your presence would mean the world to him."

Bull dragged his knuckles across his stubble. "No offense to the boss, but not interested." 

_"Stained like magister blood, seeping deep, fingers red like the fur."_

Dorian felt Cole appear like cold mist behind him, and Bull's eye narrowed. " _Crap_ , kid, can't you use the stairs like a normal person?" 

"He's here to tell you why you'll be attending the party," said Dorian. 

"You were the one who spilled wine of Madame de Fer's mink stole at the gala in Val Chevin last month. You blamed it on Lady Arles's cat, and Vivienne made Lady Arles pay for it." Cole's pale eyes mooned up at him. "It was you." 

All the color bled out of Bull's face. There was more than a tinge of real fear there. That mink stole had been one of Vivienne's favorites, gifted to her by the late Duke Bastien. 

"That's sneaky," said Bull.

"It's important to me that this party be well-attended," said Dorian. "Will you be there?" 

"Yeah, but keep the wine thing under your skirt, all right? I'd rather face the Fade again than have that one get out."

"I'm not wearing a skirt," said Cole. "But I won't tell, The Iron Bull. If you go to the party."

Dorian was actually proud. Who knew a spirit of compassion could be such a quick study in blackmail.

* * *

The rest were easy enough rats to skewer. Josephine was mortified to learn Cole liked to watch her play out diplomatic meetings with dolls. Sera had a filthy crush on arcanist Dagna that she was surprisingly shy about. Blackwall required no blackmail at all, as he was simply happy to be included. Vivienne, Solas, and Leliana were the hardest nuts to crack, but Cole was nothing if not ruthless in his precision, and by late afternoon, all of them had assembled into one of the tiny contemplation gardens at the back of the castle.

Dorian had arranged for tables with some of Trevelyan's favorite foods to be set on the grass. There was salted seal meat from the icy seas around Ostwick, blue veined cheeses from Denerim, and towers of caramel drizzled croquembouche just like they made in the patesseries of Val Royeau. A plate of Antivan black cherries sat beside an arrangement of grilled asparagus and freshly washed beetroot salad, and an entire table had been given over to bottles of orange muscat from the summer vineyards around Lake Celestine. The centerpiece was a cake glistening with butterscotch icing--Trevelyan's favorite flavor.

It was a sorry sight. Trevelyan deserved a feast. He deserved all the splendidness that Dorian had received as a boy, and then some, but this would have to do. 

His guests likewise could not be helped. Josephine kept plucking at her watch chain, Cullen couldn't seem to stop muttering, and Sera finally pulled up a chair and began to nibble oily batter off a plate of fried flounder. 

"My dear, you do realize we are all terribly busy?" said Vivienne. She sat on a mossy bench, stirring the air with a peacock feather fan. "Time is precious, and you have yet to convince me this is not a waste of ours." 

"Patience." Dorian stepped back into the castle and returned with a masked man in a white suit. 

"When he comes around the corner, play that wretched song of yours about the bird falling in love with the fish-what was it called?" asked Dorian. 

"Feathers of Fortune?" The masked man strummed a chord.

"That's the one. Play it softly enough that we can talk, and stay out of the wine until you finish. Sound reasonable?"

"It's a gig, baby." ZITHER! took his place near a fountain. 

"Right." Dorian wiped his palms on his trousers. He felt a little nauseous. "He'll be here any minute, and when he does, you will all yell 'surprise,' understand?"

Solas sighed.

The sky was turning pink by the time Cole led the Inquisitor into the gardens. They heard their voices first, coming around a hedge. 

"It's this way," said Cole. "He's hurt. The bunny. _Red outside, should be inside, spilling like wine in the grass."_

"I don't understand why you couldn't bring it to me." Trevelyan sounded irritable. "I have a luncheon with the Nevarran ambassador tomorrow that I need to prepare for and Josephine chooses now to disappear-"

They came around the corner. Dorian and Blackwall shouted "SURPRISE!" Trevelyan rocked back on his heels, wide-eyed. There was a spattering of late, embarrassed "surprise"s from the others, with Sera grunting through a mouthful of fish. ZITHER! broke into song, and Trevelyan, more than a little uneasy, honed in on him as if he was a rattlesnake.

"Now, now." Dorian swooped in. "I know you hate surprises, but we, your friends, felt that you needed this."

"Needed what?" said Trevelyan. "What is this?"

"It's a celebration of you being a mage," said Dorian. "You remember the conversation we had the other night? About little mage children being thrown parties when they came into their magic? This is your party. This is to celebrate your magic."

Dorian could see the pieces falling together in Trevelyan's head. He glanced past him to where his friends were gathered. 

"Is this true?" Trevelyan asked.

The question was directed at no one In particular. Cassandra found an interesting spiderweb to examine. Cullen cleared his throat, and Iron Bull finally said, "sure boss." 

"You suffered so much for something beyond your control," said Dorian. "No one thanks you when you heal us after a battle, or cast a barrier to save us a from a sword stroke. No one thanks me either, but I know what it is to have my gifts respected. You never have. We, all of us, wanted to make sure that you know that we adore your magic, because your magic is you."

It was odd. For as long as Dorian had known him, he had never seen Trevelyan so uncertain. Trevelyan never let his mask slip, was always one step ahead, and now he seemed genuinely at a loss for words. Dorian led him to the center table, where a long parcel was laid out. 

"In an ideal world, I would have given a hundred gifts, but alas, Lady Montilyet did not afford me a budget. This will have to do," said Dorian.

The parcel was jet black paper with a gray velvet ribbon around it. Trevelyan untie the bow and unwrapped it.

Inside was a staff of polished silver lime. Its head was crafted in the shape of a dragon skull with a Fade-green emerald focus stone clamped in its jaws. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, more suited for the throne room than the battlefield. Trevelyan lifted it slowly and ran his gloved hands down its silver haft, then fitted his fingers through the sockets of the dragon skull. When he turned, his eyes were troubled.

"You did this for me?" he asked.

"Of course," said Dorian.

"Because I'm a mage?" asked Trevelyan.

This time, the question was directed at everyone. Dorian answered for them by saying, "yes."

Trevelyan dropped his gaze. In the smallest voice Dorian had ever heard him use, he said, "thank you."

Shame crashed like a wave around the garden. Suddenly, no one seemed able to meet each other's eyes. Sera stopped picking at the fish, Cullen grimaced, and Solas gave a "hm." Eventually, Varric stepped forward and patted Trevelyan on the back.

"You're a weirdo, Blackbird," he said. "But you're our weirdo."

That broke the tension. Trevelyan relaxed and gave them one of his rare smiles. It was so grateful, that Dorian had no fears about any of the companions blabbing about how they had to be forced against their will to the party. Dorian was no stranger to shame, and if there was one thing it encouraged, it was silence.

The rest of the evening was pleasant. They lit torches and sat on the benches and grass, listening to ZITHER! until the mage musician grew bored and asked to join in the drinking.

Near the end of the night, when Josephine started to yawn and Dorian felt his own energy waning, Trevelyan rose from his seat and went to a fountain in a tiny grotto at the back of the garden. 

He pointed his staff and shot a jet of purple sparks into the water. Foam erupted from the surface and spilled over the stone lip in a great frothy mass, sending bubbles high into the air. The bubbles floated over them in a fleet, bringing laughter and hands reaching up to pop them. Trevelyan swung his staff in a wide arc and gathered them all in a spiral over his head, where they twisted into a foamy dragon that gurgled and then, all at once, popped. 

It was a silly little display, but everyone was drunk and clapped anyway. Not the grand show of power Dorian had envisioned, but from the ease in the Inquisitor's body and warmth on his face, it was all the better. It was probably the first time Trevelyan had ever been able to play with his friends as a mage.

* * *

Later that night, Trevelyan fucked Dorian's brains out. 

DorIan had hoped that might happen. It was so nice to be thanked for one's hard work.

It was sometime in the early morning when Trevelyan finally let him go, and they both sprawled in the spoiled bedsheets, stinking and spent as racehorses. 

"It's not every day someone manages to surprise me, you know," said Trevelyan. 

"That is the purpose of a surprise party," murmured Dorian.

Trevelyan pinched his arm. "It was the most thoughtful thing anyone has done for me in a long time, Dorian Pavus. Today was a good reminder that impossible things can happen."

"When I'm around," said Dorian.

"Yes," said Trevelyan. "When you're around."

It was said without a shred of irony. A perilous emotion constricted Dorian's chest. He thought of Trevelyan as a little boy alone in the Circle of Ostwick, strapped down on some cold stone table while a Templar cut into his skull, and the man beside him in bed, and how the two were one in the same.

"Does it still make you nervous for me to say your magic isn't a curse?" asked Dorian.

Trevelyan was quiet. He traced a finger down Dorian's arm. 

"I think we should give the mage children in the rebellion a small party for their gifts," said Trevelyan. "And the children who will come into their magic. Nothing exorbitant, otherwise Josephine will have a stroke, but something." 

Dorian fell asleep with a smile. 


End file.
